December, 299 AC

Catelyn could not sleep.

Her chambers were cold and dark, torrents of rain pounding against the window. Carefully she groped for a candle, and padded over to the fireplace. The maids had banked the fire but Cat stirred up the coals, adding a fresh dry log before lighting the candle from the embers.

Her shift offered little protection from the chill, so she slipped on a heavily embroidered robe before sitting beside the fire. Rivers wound around the sleeves, silver trout leaping from the waters. Only the finest for my little cat , her father had said when he gifted it to her for her fourteenth nameday.

They had dressed Hoster Tully in his finest for the funeral, his wasted frame hidden beneath armor and surcoat. He looked noble as a king, my lady , little Queen Jeyne had said. The girl was determined to be a faithful gooddaughter, but the words had given her little comfort. First Ned, then my sons, now my father. How much more can the gods take from me?

No one understood her loss but Edmure, and he was always with his knights. Patrek Mallister and Marq Piper had ridden south with Robb as part of his guard, but her brother had others about him, those who knew him best. While their fathers and brothers oversaw the planting of crops and the rebuilding of villages, they drank with Edmure, consoling the new lord Tully over the loss of the old. Why should Edmure worry about a sister's grief, when his own seemed like to drown him?

At least Edmure was no longer raging. Not hours after their father's death, a response had finally arrived from the Twins. Rather than a raven, Lord Walder had sent a column of forty soldiers, led by Walder Rivers, Lord Walder's eldest bastard, and Lame Lothar Frey. The insult of sending a cripple and a bastard had not been overlooked, though Edmure was wise enough to shout his complaints in private, well away from Ser Perwyn.

Catelyn had set Ser Perwyn the task of keeping track of Arya. She did not know what to make of her youngest daughter. Arya would be eleven in a few month's time, and while she had thought going south might lead her daughter to mature, the results were... odd.

Arya had not fought her engagement to Elmar Frey beyond mutinous looks. She had uttered not a single complaint when they dressed her in an old gown of Tully blue and red for Lord Hoster Tully's funeral, though she looked awkward and unhappy. She had not tried to escape Ser Perwyn's watchful eye, nor set Nymeria on Ser Rolph Spicer, though Catelyn half wished she would.

Still, there was a wildness within her that Cat had never seen before. Arya's tendency toward collecting scabs had only worsened. Ser Perwyn reported that while Catelyn oversaw preparations for the funeral, Arya had spent nearly every hour in the godswood, drilling with the slim blade she called Needle. I'm Sansa's sworn shield , she'd told her mother stubbornly, and Catelyn had thought of Brienne and bit her tongue. Grudgingly Ser Perwyn admitted that the girl was better than many squires her age, though she had no opponents but the little lord Dayne. At Winterfell Catelyn would have put a stop to such wildness, but now...

With a sigh Catelyn stood, making her way to the adjoining chambers where Arya slept. The draperies of the featherbed were open, and by the dim candlelight Catelyn looked upon three sleeping girls.

Arya slept close to the edge of the bed, her little face screwed up in concentration. Jeyne Poole curled against her daughter, back to back, holding Meri in her arms. The septa reported that the girl showed little enthusiasm for serving as a lady's maid, but she worked hard at her lessons. Meri had been a milkmaid before the Lannisters burnt her village; perhaps she might prefer the Winterfell dairy over serving as Arya's maid.

Winterfell. The thought of home made her shake as she held back a sob. Theon must have lied, Arya had insisted, one hand on her direwolf's head. Nymeria's great golden eyes had stared at Cat, and she wondered. No. Ser Rodrik would not make such a mistake. It was too much to hope for. Ned's old gods had saved Sansa from the Red Keep, to hope that they had saved her sons as well was greedy and foolish.

A pile of clothing lay on the floor. Carefully Catelyn picked up the garments, laying them on the chest at the foot of the bed. Despite the seamstresses' scandalized objections, they had done their work well. There were tunics of Stark grey and white, breeches, a doublet, even a surcoat. Arya had been stunned speechless.

Hopefully she'll not fuss when the gowns are finished. The seamstresses were still working on those. There was little need to make Arya dress properly until Robb returned. Very few visited the godswood, and Perwyn had instructions to let no one enter while Arya was within. Since Nymeria paced the godswood, no one had tried to gainsay him.

As for meals, Arya usually missed them, returning from the kitchens late in the evening, her arms laden with pies and scones. Doubtless the pot boys and scullery maids were more familiar with her scapegrace daughter than any of the lords were. Still, she had joined Catelyn in the Great Hall for a few meals, after being thoroughly scrubbed by Jeyne and Meri and laced into a gown.

This evening Arya had sat beside her mother as she endured Lame Lothar's endless courtesies. Lord Walder had accepted the proposed match with Edmure, though Edmure would not be permitted to choose his own bride from among the many Frey girls. The offer of keeps for a few Frey sons had met with equal enthusiasm, though Walder Rivers ominously noted that the keeps had best be repaired and the lands fruitful.

"I doubt our brave young king would bestow a ruin upon his sister and her husband, nor his new goodbrothers," Lame Lothar said, politely ignoring the look of dismay on Arya's face.

When Catelyn brushed Arya's hair before bed, she'd grumbled that Nymeria didn't like Lame Lothar's smell. If only the direwolf could explain why. Catelyn was in no position to turn away allies on the basis of a direwolf's nose. Still, she would think of some way to keep Ser Rolph far from Robb, and she would keep her eye on Lady Sybell and Lame Lothar.

Softly Catelyn padded back to her room, candle in hand. The rain was still pouring down, and she wondered if the same storm loomed over Robb and his host. Her son rode with all his horse, nearly four thousand strong, and another four thousand foot trailing behind. Please, Warrior, guard Robb from his foes. My first son, and my last. I cannot lose him, I cannot.

The grey dawn was creeping over the horizon when a gentle knock rapped at her chamber door. Catelyn froze. They cannot have come to battle so soon, they cannot. Yet why was her heart racing so?

"Enter," she called. Maester Vyman slipped through the door, a letter clutched in his hands.

"My lady-" she saw the grey wax, the grey wolf's heads, and snatched it from his grasp.

My lady... boys alive... Luwin sent them to White Harbor... rider from Lord Manderly for he does not trust his Lannister maester... Rickon is hale and hearty, and great friends with Lord Wyman's granddaughter... escorting them personally home to Winterfell... Bran did not go to White Harbor... Reed's children have taken him north, we know not where...

"A rider," Catelyn said, joy thrumming through her limbs. "A rider must be sent to Robb."

"My lady?" Maester Vyman asked, perplexed.

"My sons are alive," she exulted, a queer laugh escaping her. "Go- fetch the rider, I'll give him the message. Make haste!" The old man nodded and hurried away.

Without a moment's pause Catelyn strode for her daughter's chambers, throwing open the door. Arya leapt from the bed, a dagger clutched in her hand.

"Nymeria was right," Catelyn said.

While Arya whooped with joy, Catelyn sank to her knees, overwhelmed. Whether the old gods or the new had answered her prayers, she did not know, but both held sworn oaths sacred above all. I shall do all in my power to see your daughter safe, Brienne had pledged. If my prayers are not enough, then at least help her keep her oath.